


Nine Months, Fourteen Days, Seven Hours, and Forty-Six Minutes

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:23:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been nine months, fourteen days, seven hours, and forty-six minutes since the last time John had sex. Not that he's keeping track or anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Months, Fourteen Days, Seven Hours, and Forty-Six Minutes

It's been nine months, fourteen days, seven hours and forty-six minutes, according to his calculations.

Not that making precise calculations has become a habit with him as a result of living with Sherlock.

Yet there he is, being snogged to death, and what a wonderful death it will be, beneath the warm solidity of another body.

Breath, tongues, saliva, lips, teeth, oh God, he'd forgotten about _teeth_. All of it makes John's eyes roll back in his head as he bucks against the mass above him.

He's rewarded by a chuckle.

"Patience, John. Good things _come _to those who wait…"__

John groans at the pun. It's almost too much: he's drowning as his shirt is un-tucked, his belt loosened, his trousers and pants eased over his hips and thighs. The hands above him pause.

"Problem?" he asks.

"Not a problem at all, I'm merely, John… you're gorgeous."

That same mouth is on his cock, and it is warm and wet and welcoming and John groans and grips the back of the sofa to keep from coming.

Again, there's the chuckle, vibrating against his cock. The air of the room is cool against his heated skin as the mouth withdraws.

"A wank in the shower three days ago isn't going to help you here, doctor."

"Please," John gasps; this is nothing at all like the wank in the shower three days ago.

"Relax, let go. We have all night."

The leather of the sofa is sticky beneath his legs as he tries to sit up, but hands are pushing him back down.

"Please," he begs again, hoping for at least some dignity, not to come three minutes in like some randy seventeen year old. He remembers that his trousers are pooled around his ankles, that his shoes are still on, that he's trapped by his own clothing.

His legs are swung around and his feet are on the floor.

"Yes, I like you like this – shirt unbuttoned, completely open, erect, waiting. Utterly debauched, John."

It's John's turn to chuckle.

"Only you'd say 'debauched' in the middle of a blow job," he says.

"Middle? Oh, no, we've only just begun." That wonderful, wet, hot mouth envelops his cock again. He's going to come if he's not careful and he can't, not yet.

"Please, not yet, I can't…"

"Yes, you can, please John, please come for me."

It takes only the faintest scrape of teeth and John comes with a strangled shout, completely overwhelmed by the rush of his orgasm.

The moment stretches as he sags against the sofa, aware of the cooling of the room, the stickiness of the leather beneath him, the faint sounds of traffic in the street below and the presence of the other body – the other self, kneeling between his legs, the brush of fabric of the shirt, the tickle of hair on his knee, the huff of breath on his thigh.

John's vision begins to clear. Sherlock smiles.

"I should very much like to fuck you now."

**Author's Note:**

> From the kinkmeme: _"... when I don't have sex for a very long time, I forget what real bodies feel like. I forget how real... how soft and warm and solid another body lying next to you is. It's a shock in a wonderful sort of way. I want someone feeling that again. Realizing the difference between just thinking about sex and actually touching it."_
> 
> As usual, not mine, no money. And special thanks to annietalbot for the lightning beta-fu over IMs.


End file.
